


Cruelty Has a Nobler Ring

by Marquise



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:05:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marquise/pseuds/Marquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Jealousy is cruel as the grave: the coals thereof are coals of fire." -- Solomon Ibn Gabirol</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cruelty Has a Nobler Ring

**Author's Note:**

> Written for gameofships "Tag! Your Ship" event.

Harrold sends her things, small trinkets, tokens of affection for a bride he has yet to meet. Fabric for gowns, thread for her needlework, books—the list grows with each passing week, along with Alayne’s embarrassment. She always makes certain, though, that Myranda or anyone else at the Gates of the Moon could not call her gratitude into question, fawning over each slip of silk and bauble as she unwrapped them, making sure her blushes could be mistaken for those a bastard girl who had never before received such attention.

At night, she would wonder why Harrold went to such an effort for the nothing of a girl that he was told she was. She would worry that he knew her true identity and was trying to prove himself to Sansa Stark, though of course such an idea was absurd—they had been careful, so careful. But then why such a show? Myranda said that he was gallant, which only made the gifts seem more poisonous to her. She knew what gallantry could hide.

Sometimes at dinner Petyr would ask her what she received and she would tell him, conscious always of the press of eyes on her. She would watch his face, focus on the hard set of his mouth, the way he would shift his gaze, and think that perhaps he would be well served to remember their company. She never once questioned that maybe what was so obvious to her in his body language was unknown to all others.

\----

The Royces had provided Petyr with a splendid solar, and it had become almost a pattern with him to call her into it in the evenings. They would drink wine and discuss the events on the continent; Alayne was more than a little proud of her growing familiarity with such matters.

One day she receives a gift—bolts of fine lace—with a note explaining that Harrold hoped she would wear this at the wedding. Petyr doesn’t eat with them that night and doesn’t send for her afterwards. She places the lace on top of the other gifts in her trunk, allowing herself to indulge in a fantasy, picturing how it will look against her auburn hair. She goes to sleep with that image in her mind, only to be shaken awake by a servant who explains that he father requests her presence. 

She slides back into her simple dress, wrapping a shawl around her to protect against the cold of the Vale, and makes her way on silent feet, confused and more than a little annoyed.

When she finds him it is clear that he’s been drinking most of the night, his desk covered in papers and bottles, and her annoyance only increases. He can be so sloppy sometimes.

“You wanted to see me?” Alayne keeps her voice steady, tinged with a bit of ice. She stands before the desk with her fingers gripping her shawl, trying to read his cloudy gaze.

“I did.” His voice is steadier than she imagined it would be, carefully practiced. “I hear you received a gift.”

Her mouth lifts into a slight smile. _Ah, so that’s it._ “Lace.”

“For your wedding.” She’d never heard him say it with such a sneer.

“What else would it be for?” Alayne keeps her voice light, smiling all the while. 

Petyr laughs and pours another glass of wine. He offers it to her and she accepts it without a word, grateful for something that might put her a bit at ease.

“Are you happy to be marrying Harry?”

“I don’t know him. The plan seems a good one.” She hopes those words will reassure him a bit, get things back to normal. When he’s in moods like this—an increasing occurrence, she’s begun to realize—she begins to question feelings that are perhaps best left buried. 

“But you are happy to receive his gifts?”  
“Shouldn’t I be?”

Petyr downs his own wine with a single gulp and slumps back in his chair. A thousand questions form and die on her lips. She has her own assumptions, can make her own deductions, but hearing it from his own lips would be something else.

“You can be so cruel,” he mutters, almost to himself. She’s about to protest when he adds, almost as an afterthought. “That’s good.”

Alayne can think of nothing to say to that; she sips at her wine.

Petyr watches her, his gaze as steady as he is capable of, and she notices the way his hand grips the arm of his chair. 

“No more parcels,” he says after a moment. “You will write to Harry and refuse his gifts.”

She grips the goblet a bit tighter, “Won’t that endanger the marriage?”

He snorts, derisive. “Are you questioning my judgment?”

Alayne sets the goblet down, trying to will her hand to steady. She’s not sure if she’s really angry—the gifts were a bit absurd, after all—but something about this meeting, about his order, sends her heart racing. “May I leave?”

“Not yet.” He beckons her close and she knows what is expected of her. She leans in to brush her lips against his cheek, not really surprised when he claims her mouth. The kiss is rough and wine-stained, and before she knows it she’s griping his shoulders, returning it with fervor. 

It’s Petyr who pulls away, for once, smiling at the small noise of protest she makes. He turns back to the desk and orders her to bed without meeting her eyes. 

“You’re cruel,” she says, and his laugh follows her out.


End file.
